


Amor vincit mucus

by Vae



Category: Torchwood RPF
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, John/Scott, M/M, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-22
Updated: 2012-01-22
Packaged: 2017-10-29 23:00:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/325135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vae/pseuds/Vae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John's got a cold, and isn't enjoying it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Amor vincit mucus

**Author's Note:**

  * For [taffimai](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=taffimai).



> Written for taffimai for midwinter 2007, thanks to lvs2read for beta services. Set December 2006.

"Go back to bed."

John pauses in the doorway, one hand resting against the frame for the support he needs more than he's willing to admit, every muscle heavy and slow to react, but not so much as his head. Christ, someone or something's filled his head with the kind of thick gunk that fuzzes his brain, and it's slowly following the forces of gravity to settle on his chest. He wouldn't mind so much, but it's affecting his voice, and that's just not allowed.

The quiet tap of keys summoned him from the bedroom, interrupting the silence of the flat. The tap of keys and the soft scritch of claws on wooden floors when he knows damn well that he left Scott in London with Lewis and Tiger, and Penny was curled up in her bed when he'd given in and retreated to his own. And yet...shit, no, he's not that ill, is he? It's just a fucking cold, rest and juice and vitamins and echinacea will chase it off, along with generous doses of decongestants and caffeine to keep him working. He's not feverish. He's definitely not sick enough to be hallucinating Scott and the boys right there. Right here.

And yet.

There's a long-suffering sigh and the tapping stops with a decisive click. The man at the desk swivels around in his chair, crosses long legs at the ankles and leans back, assessing. "You look like shit," he pronounces, deadpan.

Yep, that's definitely Scott. A hallucination would be more sympathetic.

"Good to see you too, sweetheart," John replies, or tries to. Half of his vowels have decided to go on vacation, leaving awkward and uneven silences in his words, and that's really fucking frustrating. He glares, generally, straightens up, takes a proper breath, resists the automatic urge to cough out the gunk that's, yeah, settling into his lungs, and tries again. "..m..en..."

The next moment, John's gripping the doorframe more tightly as two noisy, energetic and apparently very happy dogs accost him, rubbing around his ankles and trying to climb his jeans. Not usually a problem, but when his balance is shot to hell (he's overdue for the next dose of meds) and he's wearing his oldest, most comfortable (read 'thinnest') jeans, those claws are pretty sharp.

"Oh, for..." Two seconds and the boys are very firmly discouraged, and Scott's arm slides around his waist, pulling him close and providing a lot more welcome support than the wall did. "Bed."

It's a damn shame that John can't produce anything more than a faint shadow of his usual suggestive grin as he's led determinedly back to the bed he's only just left, because with Scott around, it sounds a whole lot more inviting. "D'you miss me that much?"

The response to that is a shove that lands John abruptly back on the rucked-up duvet with an instinctive roll that leaves him curled on his side. Shit. He hadn't been anticipating that, which means he can't suppress the cough this time, head pounding with it. That's really not fucking helping, his body landing him with a headache and then making its own noises to make things worse. What does help, though, is the dip of mattress behind him and the unexpectedly gentle touch of Scott's hand resting on his back.

When the tightness lets go, John twists to look up at Scott, still can't quite grasp why or how he's here but that doesn't matter so much. What matters is that's Scott's _here_ , Jesus, it's been too long, over a week, and that's what has him extending a slightly icky and definitely clammy hand for Scott to clasp. "What the fuck are you doing here?"

"Sounds like that helped," Scott comments, warmth dancing in his eyes to balance the tension clear in the set of his jaw and the tightness in his shoulders. "You've got your words back. I can even hear you."

"Fuck you," John returns, but it's automatic, no force or heat behind it. "Scott..."

The grip on John's hand eases, soothing stroke of Scott's thumb tracing steady lines across the back. "Gavin called. And no," Scott held up his free hand, one finger lifted to still John's protest, "I'm not here to stop you going in to the theatre today."

That's a relief, because John's pretty sure he hasn't got the energy for that fight along with the performances, and he'd rather be on stage than fighting with Scott. "So...?"

"So we've closed the office for Christmas." Scott shrugs, eyes steady on John's face, and wow, that's fucking _huge_ , that Scott's... "The council offices are all shut, anyway, so it's not like we can actually progress anything, and most of our clients have other priorities at this time of year. Oddly enough." Expressive lips hint at a smile, and a little more tension fades. Okay, right, yes, Scott really _is_ okay with this, and not going to be resenting any time he's forced away from work. This is Scott's choice, not something that Gavin's guilted him in to. "Besides, I've got most of the designs and requirements backed up to my laptop."

John chuckles, quiet and light, heaviness seeping through his limbs again the longer he's lying down, but it's easier now, thank God. So much easier with Scott there, but yeah, it's just more _Scott_ to have brought work with him rather than walking away from it. "Y'know, you could have just left it at closing the office."

The hint blooms into a full smile, and Scott leans down to kiss John's forehead, soft and brief, before sitting back with an expression of mild disgust. "I really could. Good God, John, you're revolting."

It's true, John can't deny it. He's been skimping on everything that's not absolutely essential in order to hoard his energy, and that means that he's not showered yet this morning. There's no point shaving before he gets to the theatre, anyway, easier to put panstick on freshly shaved skin, but it still stings to hear that from Scott. "Yeah."

Scott squeezes his hand, lets go, and moves away. "Get some rest, I'll go run you a bath. You focus on getting well before the ceremony."

The ceremony, shit, yeah. That's soon. That's...God, John's got no fucking clue what the date is, either, and he carefully rolls over to watch Scott walking towards the bathroom. "Scott?"

"Yes, John?"

"Thanks."

That earns him a vaguely surprised look, as if there'd never been any other possible sequence of events but this. "Don't be ridiculous, darling. I'm hardly likely to turn down a reason to come and see you sooner." Scott grins, rolls his shoulders back, and continues to the bathroom, leaving the door open so that his voice can drift back over the distant thunder of water pouring into the tub. "As if I needed another one."

John's got to concede that point, even if Scott's reluctant to voice the word too often. They've only ever needed one reason to see each other, and that's the reason they're holding the commitment ceremony.

And even mucus can't stop that one.


End file.
